Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLV, Issue 17, 26 April 1911, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

The Call of the Spring. OME from the city, the country 17 is calling you Down to the woods where the primroses bloom; Springtime has tome with its magic enthralling you, Winter is past with its desolate gloom. Primroses, violets, bluebells are covering Hedgerows that lately were sodden and bare; Over the village the grey smoke is hovering, Butterflies glide through the seenti laden air. . Up from the field, where the dewdrops are glistening, Rises the lark to the blue sky above, While far below him his mate nestles listening To the sweet music of springtime and love. Then come from the city, where all is but vanity; Shut not your ears to the voices that bring Into the turmoil arid strife of humanity, Fresh from the woodlands, the call of 'he spring. - - - - - —Cecil Maudslay. © © © A Gray Day. I may not, this gray day, elude 'A cloudy, melancholy mood; The thrush its ecstasy witholds, Hid in the thicket’s leafy folds; The vagrant minstrel wind forgets To finger its elusive frets; ; Yet joy and song but wait the drift Of yonder wrack to leap and lift, Whiffs', like an April-budded bole, I, too, await the golden rift To take the sun into my soul! —Clinton Scollara.

In An Artist's Studio. This is Enchantment’s realm, for here I find, Inside four walls, scenes suited to my mind In myriad moods. And I indeed were blind If I saw not the world reflected here, As figures in a glass, from by-gone year Or present time —from lands both far and near. A little world, shut in by walls that keep That other world outside in which men weep And toil, scarce finding time for love or sleep. Here is a bit of Summer. See that rose From whose red eup, when e’er the warm wind blows Odours are spilled that only Junetime knows. A robin suns his wing besides his nest; A little brook goes babbling on its quest To find the sea—and all is sweet with rest. . I turn. The summer’s gone. The white snow shines From mountain peaks through a green gloom of pines. And chill, bright sunshine draws in etchers’ lines A tracery of ‘branches on the snow. Oh, white, cold world, beats your heart warm below Such ermine as no king on earth can show? I turn again. There’s witchery here, it seems. • The snow has vanished, and the blue sea gleams In yellow sunshine, and a spell of dreams Is round me as I see, far off, white sails

Of ships blown seaward by the silent gales To find. |>erhapa, the land where peace prevails. Again the wizard waves his magic wand. Among the great of earth 1 seem to stand And see deeds done all time will reckon grand. And then—among the lowliest ones of earth. I feel the kinship of a common birth As grief treads closely on the heels of mirth. O room of magic! wherein man lias wrought The witcheries of the brush till it has eaught What words can not, the colour of a thought, Here dreamers, poets, all great souls may feel Your subtle influence o’er their senses steal Until Art’s world seems all the world that’s real! —Eben E. Rexford. © © © A Romany Sang. Oh, Wind, sweep down on the plain; Beat, beat on the fields, oh. Rain; For ye and I be brethren three. Wind and Rain and the Romany! Rain and wind and the lone free heath, With the scudding clouds to rove beneath! I hear the screech owl’s fluttering cry. Small brother of mine in the dim night sky! For my home is set where the four winds twine. Where rapturous earth and sky are mine. Beneath the arms.of the-bld oak. bent To shelter the edge of a brother’s tent! Oh, Wind, sweep on through my heart; Beat, beat on my Soul, oh. Rain! For ye be pals of the Romany dials, And the Gorgio life is a thing apart! —II. Bedford-Jones.

An Unnamed Maeterlinck Poem, “And if some day he some back What shall he belaid?” Tell hhn that J,waited. Till my-ffeart was cold, And if he ask me yet / ag.»ip<' Not recognlsntg nie, " - Speak him fairly and' sisterly, His heart breaks, maybe.* “And if he asks me .where vou are, What sh;«|l I reply ?” Give him my golden ring And make no svply. “And if he should usk me hall is .’left?desolate?” Show him the iSnlit,lamp, And point to the open gate. “And if he should ask me How you fell asleep?” Tell him that I smiled, For fear lest* he should weep. Translated by Richard Hovey] "■© © © The Faded Flower. Here is a little flower that I found In a letter old;. A withered, and faded blossom, but ni sweetness all untold ; Hings to theterunibling petals that a breiith would turn to dust, i Like a thought frrii'ua vanished summer, that a true heart holds in trust. A memory syieet as. the dreams are that come in the tin;e-of June, When life is- : a beautiful poem set to • sweeter ' j Than ever tW, voice of a singer that has lived Or died has sung— The song that is born of the gladness that is ours when the heart is young. Who gathered the flower, I wonder, ia the summer long ago? | Was it sent as a lover's message? Not you nor I may know, I But true to its trust, the blossom holds in its withered heart The thought that will haunt it with’ sweetness till its petals fall apart.

—Eben E. Rexford.